


Words of Emotion

by K_Ernst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Ernst/pseuds/K_Ernst
Summary: Sherlock one-shots based on a prompt table of emotions.





	1. Accepted

Sherlock has had enough of John's attempts at social and moral correction.  It feeds the underlying nagging suspicion that John's real interest in him is some kind of mission to "fix" him.  They stomp though the door of 221B in the midst of an escalating argument.  Sherlock throws an accusation at John: "Very good, a noble cause--'Fix the Sociopath!'  There is NOTHING. WRONG. WITH. ME!" he shouts down the stairs, then whirls and stalks into the flat. 

John is floored, momentarily stops dead on the stairs.  "Sherlock--"  He jogs up the stairs after the detective. 

Sherlock continues to ignore him.

_Of course.  Of course that's how Sherlock would interpret his admonishments.  He wouldn't understand that John is only trying to teach him how to get along better with people.  He knows Sherlock cares in his own way; he just hasn't the faintest idea how and when to show it.  John can see the good man under the cold exterior.  If Sherlock could just learn to show it, others could see it too._

"Sherlock."  John can't help but laugh softly at his friend's typical cluelessness. 

He has the man's attention now, all indignant billowing coat and half-unwrapped scarf.  The defensive anger flashing in his eyes is somewhat arrested by the fond, self-depreciating grin on John's face. 

"Sherlock, you know I didn't become your friend because I wanted to change you.  You're my friend because of who you _are._   I pushed too far.  I'm sorry."

Sherlock finishes hanging his coat and stalks to his room without a word.

John sighs and drops into his chair.

When a case file suddenly appears above his head and is unceremoniously dumped in his lap, John knows his apology has been accepted.


	2. Affectionate

John and Sherlock huddle side by side on a park bench, their coat collars turned up against the cold.  They are watching a suspect’s apartment building, as they have been doing for several hours.  John is starting to feel the cold seep into him after staying still so long.  He is relieved when Sherlock at last rises, apparently giving up the hunt for the day.  The detective smoothly shrugs out of his coat, leaving it on the bench as he strides across the street. 

“Sherlock?” John calls, his brow crinkling in confusion as he hurries to catch up.

“We are being watched,” Sherlock replies conspiratorially. “It will be easier to lose him if we change our appearance.”

“But—“ John starts to protest.  The only people he’s noticed watching them in the last hour are a few homeless people huddled on the sidewalk.

“Come _on,_ John,” Sherlock insists, dragging him down an ally. 

They return to Baker Street with no further trouble.  John is disconcerted that he never caught sight of their tail; his skills must be slipping. 

It is a week later that John passes a woman wearing Sherlock’s coat.  He slows his steps.  He could swear he recognizes her.  He stops and looks back at her.  That’s it—she’s one of the homeless people from the park. 

It’s not that odd, he supposes.  It’s a nice coat and the weather is cold.  Of course someone would have picked it up.  And it didn’t really fit what he knew of the detective’s personality so far to assume he had purposely left the coat for someone…. But as a military man, John prides himself on his ability to maintain awareness of his surroundings, and he never had seen anyone following them that day.

*****

It is after the second incident that John begins to suspect his anti-emotional flat-mate has a hidden affectionate streak.     

It is a miserably cold and rainy day.  John pities the stray dog he passes on his way to work, dripping wet and wandering aimlessly among the people trudging by. 

That afternoon John stops in at Mrs. Hudson’s flat to give her the shopping he’d offered to pick up.  The dog from down the street is in her kitchen.  Its wet coat has been rubbed dry and it is happily munching on a whole tin of biscuits. 

“You got a dog?” John asks innocently.

“Oh, it’s just a stray,” Mrs. Hudson replies.  “The poor thing was soaking wet out in the rain.” 

John is half way up the stairs when it occurs to him that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t going out today.  That was why he had picked up her shopping.  How would she have found the dog?  He looks speculatively up at their flat, where he can hear Sherlock playing his violin.

“That was nice of you,” John comments, “to let that dog in.”

Sherlock pauses in his playing.  “What dog?”

“The one in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, eating biscuits?”

“Now she’s got a dog?” Sherlock mutters.  “The woman will take in anything that wanders across her doorstep.”

“Uh-huh,” John replies noncommittally.  “You sure you didn’t let it in?”

Sherlock snorts.  “What would I want with some stray dog?”  He resumes playing, effectively ending the conversation.

John _might, almost_ believe him, but he is quite certain the sweater draped over his chair was neither damp nor smelling of wet dog when he left it there this morning. 

*****

They’re seated on a sofa in the couple’s living room, listening to their version of events.  Sherlock had been unsatisfied with the information recorded by the police, and had decided to interview the witnesses himself. If Sherlock’s weird trail of questions could be called an interview. 

The family’s dog wanders around the room and for some reason settles on Sherlock as a likely candidate for attention.  Sherlock reaches out absently and scratches the animal behind the ears as they listen to the witnesses’ story. It isn’t until the dog lays its chin on Sherlock’s knee and gazes adoringly up at him that Sherlock seems to realize what he is doing.  He snatches his hand away and fires off another question.

As they leave the house, John is feeling rather proud of his own deductive skills.  He is about to declare triumphantly that Sherlock _does_ , in fact, have a soft spot for dogs, when the detective cries out “Ha!  Perfect!  Look at that John!  The dog’s hair is the same as was found at the crime scene.”  He plucks several dog hairs from his trousers and thrusts them in John’s face.

“Yes, I see.”  John bats his hand away.  “So you were collecting evidence from the dog?”  John asks skeptically.

“Of course,” Sherlock answers serenely, pulling out his phone.  “I don’t make a habit of letting dogs slobber all over my suit without just cause.”

“Hello, Lestrade?” Sherlock speaks into his phone.  “I’ve found our suspect.  The dog hair matches the crime scene…Of course it’s dog hair, Lestrade!  Don’t tell me Anderson is trying to run it for a DNA match.”

John trails along behind, bemusedly listening to Sherlock expound upon the incompetence of Scotland Yard, and privately thinking that Sherlock’s lead was a lucky coincidence.  Wisely, he keeps this opinion to himself.

*****

John enters the front door of 221 Baker Street to the unfortunate serenade of Sherlock’s violin, clearly in weaponized mode to drive out unwanted visitors.  Sure enough, Sherlock’s and his brother’s strident voices drift down between tortured notes. 

Shaking his head, John jogs up the stairs. 

Sherlock is glaring daggers at Mycroft, violin raised imperiously at this shoulder, bow cutting vicious sawing motions across the strings. 

“Afternoon, John,” Mycroft greets him serenely on his way out the door.  He continues down the stairs, ever-present umbrella swinging jauntily. 

A stranger would not hear fondness in the insults and occasional threats traded by the two brothers.  But they are the _Holmes_ Brothers.  For them, this bickering is probably equivalent to effusive declarations of brotherly affection.  John decides he gets to count it. 

*****

Sherlock is without a case.  His mood does not seem to be improving.  In fact, the longer the day wears on, the more morose he becomes. 

John decides this is a worthy time to test his most recent theory.  “Hey Sherlock?” he calls. 

Sherlock turns to him.

He reaches out and pulls Sherlock into a loose hug.

“John.  What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you a hug.”

“Why?”

“I thought it might make you feel better.”

Sherlock extricates himself and glares at John.  “What on earth would make you think that?”

“I don’t know—you’ve been morose all day, and I’ve seen you hug people when you’re upset!” John defends himself.

Sherlock blinks at him.  “No I don’t.  I don’t do hugs.”

“Yes, you do,” John insists, trying to regain some sense of balance in the awkward situation he’s created.  “A couple of days ago, when you were all agitated because you were stumped on your case, and we went to see Molly, I _saw_ her hug you.”

Sherlock looks blank for a moment.  “Oh, yes.  I needed her hospital badge to get into the labs.  It was the easiest way to get it out of her purse.”

John gapes at him.  “You pick-pocket Molly now too?  Sherlock, that’s not—you can’t keep doing that to your friends!”

“So I can’t borrow a badge from Lestrade or Molly once in a while, but you can go around inflicting hugs at random on unsuspecting victims?”  Sherlock sniffs. 

“I wasn’t inflicting—oh forget it!” John throws up his hands and escapes up the stairs, red-faced with embarrassment and irritation at his impossible flat-mate.  So much for that idea. 

For the next four days Sherlock makes a _point_ of eyeing John suspiciously every time he gets within arm’s reach.

Apparently Sherlock Holmes DOES. NOT. DO. HUGS.

John still has his doubts.  After all, he’s seen Sherlock voluntarily hug Mrs. Hudson at least once or twice.  He sincerely hopes Sherlock doesn’t pick-pocket their kind landlady.  Then again, what could he possibly need to steel from her?  Possibly the key to the cabinet she locks his skull in whenever she takes it from the mantle, he muses…

*****

John’s ear catches a soft thud as he reaches the landing.  He opens the door to see Mrs. Hudson’s cat stalking across the sitting room, looking disgruntled.  Sherlock is apparently asleep on the couch, still wrapped up in his coat.  John notices a large patch of something fuzzy and white clumped on the dark material.  Hold on—is that cat hair on Sherlock’s chest?  If it is, Sherlock won’t be able to worm his way out of it this time, not when his coat is covered in evidence of his fondness for soft cuddly animals.  Grinning smugly to himself, John glances at Sherlock’s face to make sure he is still asleep and sneaks closer to confirm his suspicions.

“The feather duster, John!” Sherlock cries, suddenly bolting upright. 

John jumps back in surprise, catches his foot on the coffee table, and lands sprawled on his back. 

Sherlock, caught up in the solution to his case, doesn’t seem to notice.  He springs up and throws his scarf on.  “Mrs. Macintosh claimed she was cleaning the mantle clock when she heard the gunshot.”  Sherlock’s voice fades as he clatters off down the stairs.  “If that was true, then what was the duster doing in Robert’s room?”  The front door slams.

The cat strolls casually across John’s chest and out the door in the detective’s wake.

John lets his head drop back to the floor with a rather loud _*_ thunk _*._  

_God help any man who thinks he can catch Sherlock Holmes being affectionate._


	3. Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the pool scene at the end of The Great Game.

_The clatter and echoing slam of a door.  The clacking of slow deliberate footsteps across a tiled floor.  Silence, so the soft continuous lapping of water echoes loud.  A voice, self-assure and smug, rings out clearly._   “Brought you a little getting to know you present.  Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance; all to distract me from this.”

On the orders of the voice crackling in his ear, John grits his teeth and steps out into view.  How he _hates_ being used as part of Moriarty’s sick game. 

John had expected any possible range of reactions out of Sherlock when Moriarty sprang his surprise.  He had expected (hoped) the World’s Only Consulting Detective _might_ see right through it and have an escape planned out before John even parrots the first words. 

Sherlock turns toward him, utter confidence, prized memory stick still held triumphantly aloft.  And then he just _freezes_ , staring at John. 

Failing super-human insight and an instant escape plan, John had braced himself for a reaction of confusion, anger, maybe betrayal.

But when Sherlock calls out Moriarty and turns to find _John_ ; when John repeats, “Evening…This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”  When his friend’s face goes completely blank and he chokes out, “John?  What the hell—?”

Then John knows he has never seen Sherlock look so afraid. 


	4. Aggressive

**Aggressive**

Sherlock observes the rugby match with attentive interest.  It is not a sport he himself has ever been interested in playing, requiring, in his opinion, rather more brute force and less refined skill than individual combat.  But John, along with Detective Inspector Gregson and several others of Scotland Yard’s finest, seem to be enjoying the game immensely. 

Today, however, provides a unique opportunity for observation.  Sherlock has on multiple occasions seen the doctor use a gun with skillful precision, but he rarely has the chance to watch John in full battle mode. 

After an excessively hard collision of a skull with his face, John’s play becomes rather more… _enthusiastic_.  Wearing a manic grin, the doctor throws himself gleefully into tackling any members of the opposing team unfortunate to find themselves in possession of the ball.  He leads his team to a violent and glorious victory. 

That night, on their way home from a celebratory evening with the John’s rugby team at the pub, Sherlock glances surreptitiously at his companion.  John is limping heavily, leaning on Sherlock in lieu of his cane.  His bruised face is still split by a wide happy smile, one blackened eye swelled shut. 

Sherlock may want to rethink one of his hobbies.  He has found many an hour’s entertainment in pushing John’s buttons, cataloging his responses, always further testing his limits.  As of yet, he has yet to find the full limit of John’s patience.  He winces now, recalling one of John’s more brutal tackles of the day.  Yes, he should definitely remember to be more selective in is future John-related experiments. 

Sherlock carefully files away a note in his mind palace labeled with a large WARNING: DO NOT DELETE.  “Caution: When adequately provoked, John Watson is capable of becoming hazardously aggressive.”


End file.
